


Reluctance

by yasmean



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: AU: roommates, Ableism, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love Triangles, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Rambling, Self Harm, Suicide mentions, Unrequited Love, kinda explicit on both of those too so be careful, like a lot lol whoops, lol not rly enemies tho just like 'hey we dont get along v well'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:51:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3012944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasmean/pseuds/yasmean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman and Dean have never quite gotten along, never quite fit together, and maybe it's because Dean's an inch too tall to be so thin, and maybe it's because Roman's always been somewhat hard to read (and Dean, too, and both of them show everything but the truth on their faces), and maybe it's because they've never really talked. But there had never been much to say, until there was never anything said, until they were forced to fill that void with meaningless noise, waiting for the pain to begin to scab at the edges.</p><p>(A series of scenes of a roommate AU where Seth and Dean have known each other since middle school and take on Roman to cover the costs of their small but somewhat costly house, Dean struggles with his mental health, and Roman is forced to reconsider what he values.)</p><p>[on hold]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saber

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm yasmin and this is my first wrestle fic...if anything comes up i'll come back and edit this (i hope that's possible??? lol). dean is v important to me because i relate so goddamn hard, so hopefully i do him justice? i guess we will see. probably updating every week!!! 
> 
> **side note:** sometimes the continuity may jump around and tbh i'm sOrry but that's just my 'Style'. itll make sense tho pinky promise  
>  **another side note:** sorry for my piss-poor english
> 
>  **update:** happy 2k15 everyone!!! also tysm for all the attention this lil pointless thing has gotten :') i have a looot planned so hopefully yall will stick around for it :B  
>  kinda decided to uh. do something w/ the chapter titles hehehe. not sure how much further its gonna go past SHIELD sooo. until further notice this is a 6 act piece ahhh sorry :'(

There's a lot of small things he doesn't like about himself, and a few things that he does, and a handful of things that encompass his entire existence that makes him scream, silently and sometimes aloud, into a pillow damp with his sweat at four in the morning. But really it's the small things that add up. 

He doesn't like the slope of his neck, the sharp and abrupt angle that it touches his shoulder, in the least romantic of fashions, a hard-edged and inherently masculine degree; he doesn't like how he makes them keep all the mirrors covered, how he can never see himself in this state, hates the dozens of piles of shattered glass he's left in his wake; he doesn't like his voice, doesn't like how throaty it is, how every word etches its way through him, jagged, splintering against his tongue as syllable comes out wrong, wrong, completely wrong, and he hates that as well, he hates his inability to speak coherently, he hates the small noises that form as responses in his head but never translate to English. He feels as if he speaks a different language from those around him, a language that stems from frustration, a form of communication created in direct opposition to _silence_ , a desperate and rancorous series of cries and guttural whispers that force others to notice, to pay attention, to ensure that he does, in fact, have a place in this world, and that he does, in fact, exist. And he hates that he's always caught between this world and the next, that he exists on the subtle precipice of Humanity and The Absolute, the former he knows and the latter he's soon to meet. And perhaps that's a big thing instead, his delicate balance between 'life and death'—that's how he phrases it, when anyone asks, if anyone asks, and that's not completely what he means but he can't say it any better—that he also hates himself for, but by some measure draws comfort in. Because there must be some fucking law somewhere, some sort of Newton shit, that says that for everything that exists, the opposite must exist as well. That says that however foreign this current state of being is, then the Next must be that much more familiar. 

And he banks on this theory, has and will put his entire life on it, puts his entire life on a ledge that could finally bring him into the Next, with wind slicing at his skin like crushed diamond fluttering in a breeze that whips around him, minuscule yet destructive, tearing him apart as steadily as he does to himself. And each time he's up there, each time he's so close, each time tears stream down his face in an always-icy gust, and he feels the thrum of his 'true form', of his most primal state (of his wings unfurled, quivering in the wind) steadily coursing through him, each time the world almost comes to an end, each time he almost ends it himself with a imperceptible movement off the edge, he steps down.

'Dean?' The jolt of contact is sudden, his blood screams in his head as an intruder taps his shoulder, every atom of his being revolts against the touch. 

He blinks. 

_Seth_ registers in his head, as if he's sight reading a sheet of music, in the instant before he recognises the note. He slowly becomes aware of his surroundings, as well, of the corner he's huddled himself into, of a room he barely remembers, of another large but warm figure standing against the door frame, _Roman_. He opens his mouth, closes it, and licks his lips with his dry tongue, and it doesn't help but he likes the motion, likes the movement. He begins to become aware of his own body once more; first his face, then his shoulders, his arms, and finally his legs which have been jammed beneath him as he sits, back pressed against the wall, ringing his hands and murmuring to himself. He's bashful, suddenly aware of what a mess he's made of himself, a small dog realising his owners know that he's shredded their shoes. He glances up at Seth furtively, awaiting his disdain, but the man holds a worried expression. A glance to Roman to his right produces the same.

He licks his lips again. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's fine, it's fine,' Seth murmurs, crouching so that he's at eye level. He looks Dean over, softly, his brow furrowed and his mouth in a thin line. He looks into Dean's eyes, but of course he doesn't meet them; for as long as Seth has known him, Dean's never looked directly into his partner's eyes. That isn't to say that Dean doesn't afford both of them something to the same effect—he looks squarely at the bridge of their noses, at the space between their eyebrows—a simulation of a connection, but a luxury he only affords the two of them. 'Do you want some water?'

Dean nods, inhaling sharply through his nose and closing his eyes once more as he begins to hum a steady note. Seth looks over to Roman, Roman who always keeps his distance in times like these. Roman, stone-faced, arms crossed. Seth gives him an exasperated look; this is their brother, this is their partner, and yet he remains as unaffected as ever. There's only so far that 'upbringing' can go: at some point, Roman will have to admit that his aversion to Dean in this state is his own personal bias. Seth tilts his chin towards the mini-fridge, and Roman moves with a soft grunt, slamming the door shut after he retrieves a water bottle. Seth glares at him, but takes the water graciously, and returns his attentions to Dean.

By now, he's rocking slightly again, still humming the same note, still with his eyes shut tightly. He looks small, he always looks small when this happens. Seth nudges his shoulder softly, and Dean opens a single eye, staring at the offering before taking it. He tosses it back and forth in his hands, then shakes it softly, finally twisting the cap and smelling it. Seth feels a twinge in his heart, still, after two years, and even if its gotten better (Dean doesn't still make them test every food article before he'll even touch it) it still hurts every time. Dean drinks greedily, smiling weakly at Seth after he finishes. He looks over at Roman, who continues to avert his gaze.

'I'm fine,' Dean assures, and nobody is quite sure who he's trying to convince, because all of them know he's lying. He staggers shakily to his feet, and Seth gives him his shoulder, and Roman remains as distant as possible, and this is all a dance routine that they find themselves in, a constant rhythm they move to. Seth helps Dean into the shower, where he sits in the tub with water streaming onto him until he's stable enough to turn it off himself.

Seth closes the door behind him, and moves to sit in the cushioned chair. He sighs as he collapses into it, staring wistfully at the popcorned ceiling, tracing patterns into the texture. 

Roman clears his throat. 'They're getting more frequent.'

Seth breathes out, slowly, his entirety riding along his breath. 'I know.'

'They're getting stronger.'

'I know.'

(Dean sleeps with only Seth that night, pressing himself hard into his back and holding on as if he'll lose himself if he doesn't; he sleeps fitfully but still sleeps, somehow, and that's what matters. Roman in the nearby chair, sprawling every which way from its confines and doesn't complain the next morning when he has a twinge in his back. They spend the next day as if nothing has happened.)


	2. Hábito

Dean spends a lot of time dreaming, and even more of his time thinking that he is. He thought he was dreaming when Seth said he wanted to be his friend, in middle school, his friend, the friend of Dean Ambrose, notorious freak show act. That always made Dean giggle, his own headlining show: Dean Ambrose, the Wonder Lunatic. 

When he was a child, he was 'worse', comparatively, as he surely didn't have the coping mechanisms that have slowly (painfully) been instilled in him. There was a lot more tearing at himself, desperate to rip out and cleanse the horrors within himself, to drain the blackened tar from his pain chest, and he'd tried, several times, but was never quite deep enough.

He used to hit himself a lot more, trying desperately to wake up and to undo whatever he'd just done. And he'd claw at his skin, blood welling in the track marks he'd leave when he was anxious, which was always, he was always anxious, that's just what 'Dean' was. 

So he thought he was dreaming, every time Seth smiled at him, every time Seth laughed but it wasn't a harsh bark, it wasn't mocking, it wasn't forced; it was a noise of delight, of mirth, and Dean basked in its sound every time.

(He thought he was dreaming when they met Roman as well, when Roman showed up at their door in response to an ad in the paper, and when they all got along, and that Roman wanted to be his friend, his partner, and he'll never admit it to either of them but he still digs his nails into his arm—he hates pinching—to remind himself that he's here, with two people who say they love him, with two people that he certainly loves.)

So he believes himself to be dreaming, still, when he wakes up—a common occurrence that he can't always remember—to whispered shouts. The bed they share, in their home ('We're home now.' he'd mentioned to Seth; Seth smiled wistfully and nodded.), a king-sized bed with white, white sheets, in a small cottage along the coast of Florida, with nobody else around (They'd grown up in the North, in Ohio, two young boys who'd spent childhoods yearning for the sun.), is empty. The imprints of his bedmates have long faded, and their heat dissipated. Through an open door, Dean can see their shadows, one lithe and one large, and through the door pours the heat of their argument.

'I love you!' That has to be Roman, then, because Dean remembers how he whispers, and it's exactly as if his speaking voice was turned down a few notches. Dean holds his breath, and listens harder.

'I know.' 

'But you love him, don't you?' Roman's tone is the cumulative total of all his frustrations, all his feelings of inadequacy, paired with a deep and unconditional admiration and desire and it makes Dean's head spin, because the three of them have been together two years and he's never noticed that Roman felt that way about Seth and even now, when he tries to think of any instance where Roman's gaze lingered too long, his touch too heavy, he draws blanks. Roman exhales suddenly, heavily, as if his entire will to fight exits him along the particles of carbon dioxide. 'You always have, haven't you? You'd never have even given me the time of day if I hadn't shown up pleading on your doorstep, that's how wrapped up you are in him.' Dean watches as his shadow brings a hand to its face to rub it, exasperated. 'It's not fair.'

'I know.'

Roman laughs, a low and bitter grumble, 'That's all you ever seem to say now.'

There's a pause, Seth opening his mouth and closing it, his automatic response now moot. He settles on a weak 'sorry' that Dean struggles to hear. There's an even softer exchange of words, and the shadows embrace, and then Roman's walks past. Soon there's the jingle of keys, the click of the door opening, and the soft whoosh as its closed. 

Dean watches Seth's shadow for what seems like hours, and if he's crying Dean couldn't tell—Seth's never been loud about anything, recently. He never shouts. He never even raises his voice. Dean doesn't object, but he does notice, and he notices how worn down Seth always is, how tiredly he rubs his eyes. He always notices about Seth, just as Seth always notices about him. That's the way things are, that's the way things have been. (Eventually, Seth comes to bed, and it startles Dean but he doesn't complain, and Seth wraps his arms around his torso—tight—and, whispers something that almost sounds like an 'I love you', but Dean is still half asleep, and probably still dreaming. He's sure that whatever it was will be resolved. Has to be resolved.)

(Roman comes home at 5 in the morning, walks in on the two of them asleep, Dean curled into Seth's chest and Seth resting his chin on the blonde's messy head of hair. He sighs, he always sighs, and sleeps on the couch that night. None of them mention it.)


	3. Ilusión

Roman finds Dean on the balcony that opens off from their shared (now shared, now treasured) bedroom, and he watches him for a minute, watches the white drapes whip around in the heady breeze. Dean is pale in the moonlight, but it's an angelic pale, its the skin of hymns, praises sang from fervent lips, and he's struck odd by the scene, feels a half-memory of a Romeo and Juliet, of kisses from palms and of the desire to touch.

'Dumah,' and he calls it out before he can catch himself, the name spilling from his lips. He's never been good with remembering things on the spot, and he can't quite place what the name means, but it comes tumbling out just the same, as natural as the ebb of a brook.

And Dean does turn, and Dean does look at him, with his head backdropped by the moon, and Roman is struck silent, reverent, that such a soul could grace him with his presence. Dean smiles at him benevolently, his chin tilted upright _just_ so, the moonlight splayed across the ridges of his face, leaving him positively radiant. He raises his arms, slowly, as if he carries the entirety of Roman's worries on those small shoulders, as if he holds the entire weight of the world, as if he encapsulates the struggles and anguish of all.

Dean opens his mouth, and Roman waits, oh God how he waits, as if he's being anointed again. And he's never been religious, was baptised in a Methodist church to appease an ailing grandmother but very rarely attended. But this, this is pure religion, pure worship that pours through him. Roman's eyes track his saviour's mouth. 'Join me.'

And so he does, without pause, takes the few strides he needs to be next to Dean, somehow, against the pure awe that keeps his legs firmly planted but there's still that _draw_ so he moves, desperately.. And when he reaches him the moon shines on both of them, and he looks to Dean, who looks imperceptibly down on him, but it's enough that it makes Roman feel small, oh so small, smaller than he's ever felt before. He wants to reach out and touch, just to be sure that Dean is actually there, that he's not a mirage. He can fill the words moving along his tongue, whispering along his breath and he wants to, he wants to ask: _What are you?_ But he already knows, deep down, some part of him recognises Dean like this, some part of him recognises and the same part calls desperately to him, makes his blood hum as he's so close to this, this, otherwordly being. Roman wants to say something, anything, he truly does but the words die before he can say them, everything he wants to say doesn't sound good enough, doesn't do the figure before him the justice it deserves.

Dean quirks a smile, a slant of his lips but its genuine, as if he can see what Roman needs, and his smile is so _pure_ Roman could cry (would cry, will cry). Dean reaches out his hand and Roman's breath still in his throat, trapped by anticipation and _hell_ as Dean touches his jaw, slides his palm against the light stubble, Roman feels every burden he's ever carried, every responsibility he's ever shouldered fall away, all at once. He feels cleansed, purged, as if Dean has seen everything he's ever done, every lie he's ever told, and has watched and judged and this is the verdict: Dean forgives him.

Winter wind whips around them, stirring the wispy drapes and enshrouding them in pure, absolute white. Roman stands, watching, not sure how long, unaware of time as it slips past them, flowing to and fro and to once more. He's drinking in as much as he can of Dean, of Dean like this, of something he's never seen before, of this absolute holiness. Dean is a well of eternal salvation, a fountain of redemption and oh, Roman is so thirsty. Neither of them speak, Dean having long returned to gazing over the balcony, watching the clear sky as illuminating light continues to shine, but Roman can't stop watching. The very essence of his being is rooted in this observation, in this glimpse of something completely ethereal.

The wind dies down, the curtains return to their respective places, and the tension loosens. Dean looks to him, slowly, and even after the fact, even after Roman is completely spent, his heart still picks up. 

'Wanna smoke?' Dean says softly, tenderly, a cigarette hanging from his fingers that Roman never noticed. Both of them know that Roman doesn't smoke, preferring to soothe himself with the sharp crack of his knuckles against something, _anything_. But Roman isn't anxious now, as far from it as he's ever been, and so he nods, and waits for Dean to shake one of a pack, but is instead offered the same from the blonde's fingertips, the cylinder thin and dirty but inherently pure because it's _Dean_ 's.

He takes it to his mouth, gingerly, and it's been a long time since he's had a cigarette but he's certainly no stranger to smoking; he holds his breath, waiting, for something, for Dean to say something most likely. But Dean never says anything, simply reverts his gaze to the ocean, with his hands in a collapsed steeple (which is fitting, Roman thinks for a second, but can't form a coherent thought to support himself, but it is fitting). Roman eventually exhales, and Dean does as well, and he's not sure the last time he's heard Dean breathe but they both breathe all the same, both watching a distant point in the horizon that neither of them can truly see; and inevitable future that seems completely from their grasp.

But Roman has hope, now, or at least some semblance of it. He looks to Dean once for, for what he feels is the final time, and the light previously so radiant, so giving, is swallowed by a cloud, and Roman is left with the sense of an ending, closure.

He hums, softly.

(If Roman remembers what happened he never mentions it, and Dean is Dean and never offers information unless he's directly asked.)


	4. Exacto

'Mmm.' That's the only sound any of them make in the mornings, all rolling out of the same bed (well, Seth and Roman do, whereas Dean stays until he's too cold without them). They always meet in the kitchen, at the island, gathered around coffee. Seth cooks for all of them; bacon and fried eggs for Roman, scrambled eggs on bread-not-toast for Dean, and toast-not-bread for Seth. This is there routine: silence before the coffee, and bickering while they eat. And afterwards Dean showers, then Roman, and finally Seth, because that's how it's been.

'Dean,' Roman says suddenly, before breakfast has cooked, and it's just _off_ , just _odd_. 'How do you pay your part of the rent?'

Dean quirks an eyebrow over his mug. 'I gotta job, just like you.'

'Really?'

The blonde is affronted, but nods his head. 'Kinda.'

'How do you "kinda" have a job?' Roman asks and it's more forceful than he ought to be, more demanding than he has the right but he _is_ curious and he _does_ want to know.

Seth interrupts them before Dean can say anything, with a decisive 'Come get your food.' that holds the finality of their conversation.

And so they eat, and they don't mention it, and Dean finishes (eats half of what he's served), before claiming first to shower.

'Already beat you to it,' Roman murmurs, earning surprised looks from both Seth—concerned—and Dean—alarmed. He swallows before elaborating. 'I, uh, woke up early. Couldn't sleep.' He could have slept if he'd tried, but there were more _pressing_ matters and, sharing a bed and house with two best friends inevitably made any discreet attempt at relieving himself all the more hazardous.

'Uh. Right.' Dean nods, and ambles off to the shower. He calls out over his shoulder, 'Hope the cum's washed away by now!'

Roman feels himself alight, and Seth laughs, and things are alright, even with the sudden disruption of their rhythm. Roman looks to Seth, and Seth looks to him, and there's the seconds where Roman can feel the impulse to reach forward tease through him, flush his limbs and face but there's also the warning in Seth's eyes: _Don't_. And Roman knows he _can't_ and he _shouldn't_ but still he feels it, and Seth must feel it as well, right?

Dean comes back out almost immediately, and Roman wouldn't have noticed him had Seth not automatically looked up. And Dean, Dean is _pale_ , as if he's seen a ghost, as if he's looked death in the face.

He whispers hoarsely, 'Who took the cloth off the mirror?'

 _Shit._ Roman clears his throat. 'Uh, it was my fault dude. My bad. I was shaving.'

'You can't,' Dean says. 'You can't take the cloth off.'

Roman bristles. 'Look, it's no big deal—'

'No big _deal_?' Dean's voice raises an octave with each word, and now his volume. 'No. Big. Deal?'

And Roman feels himself get angry as well, stands up, 'I'm sorry, alright? Just chill out.'

' _No_!' And it's a screech if Roman's ever heard one, a desperate noise that tears through Dean as he spits it out. 'No, I won't fucking _chill out_.'

The words fall from his lips before he can say them, in a shout, in the most vile tone imaginable. 'I didn't realise I was living with a fucking _lunatic_.'

Roman's eyes widen as soon as he says it, regret crashing over him and, 'Dean—' But the damage is done and Dean's turned and run to the bedroom, with the door shutting with a harsh click, with the scratching as Dean struggles to lock the door. Roman turns. 'Seth—'

But Seth won't look at him, simply goes to wash his mug, all while Roman watches, regretful. Seth leaves as well, and Roman is left alone, with a cold plate and a pit in his stomach.

~

They've never spoken very much about their pasts, only ever light memories, and always ones that both Dean and Seth share, and giggle about as they tell Roman. And Roman laughs, of course, but it's not the same, and he is completely put out by his inability to be part of their secret little club, their secret looks that they share that make the pit of his stomach burn, and he's sure at some point this silent jealousy is going to sear right through his core, because he can already feel the acid coating every word he says to Dean. And what stupid words they are. What biting, awful words they are.

So when Dean slides onto the couch right beside him—close enough that Dean must have felt Roman's sleeve brush against his bare skin—after all he'd said, after all the yelling and all the silence, Roman is taken aback. Even more so when Dean opens his mouth.

'Y'wanna'know?' It's more of a croak than anything, a jumbled expression that comes, unwillingly, from the recesses of Dean's throat, as he forces himself to put it out there, to lay the offer on the table.

Roman has always been one for boundaries. 'About what?'

Dean gives a frustrated grunt in reply, smoothing (scraping) his (nails of his) right hand across his chest, up to his collarbone and down to his sternum, again and again and again and Roman finds it interesting: to some degree because he's forced to watch as he wards off any eye ('eye') contact with Dean, but also because there's all the quirks about Dean that he's somehow managed to file away but that he never remembers until he sees them. This one, this one is anxiety, this one is nervousness.

The agitated man makes a motion with his free hand, gesturing at everything and nothing. 'Y'know. _Why_ 'n shit.'

Roman looks to the floor. _Oh._ He words what he says next carefully, 'Is it alright? To ask?'

Dean laughs, but its more of a sharp cackle, less human, with an underlying caterwaul that does nothing to lessen the tension. He clears his throat. 'I mean it's all good man, pretty boring shit I s'pose. Just didn't know if that was something that might interest you...' He trails off, the clawing at himself the only noise between them, before Roman picks up the line that they've both known, that's stitched into the thin fabric of their relationship (relationship is a heavy word, because it holds the weight of a _connection_ of an _understanding_ and Roman supposes that they have that, but by the same token shies away from calling two roommates anything beyond friends, and they're not even that).

Roman can feel Dean's eyes searching his face, desperate for approval, desperate for the green light to expose himself so readily to Roman and that's romantic, in a way, in the least romantic of ways, that Dean is so willingly to tear himself apart and let Roman root around in his innards when Dean knows next to nothing about the man before him. 'If you're comfortable telling me.' 

Dean knows Roman's 24, he knows he has an ex-wife, he knows he has a big family somewhere kinda-local-but-not that Roman only talks to with pained expressions over the phone. Dean figures Roman must have done _something_ , something really bad, something bad enough that his family doesn't know exactly where they live. ('I'm still in Florida,' he assures gripping the home phone uneasily as if he knows he'll smash it to pieces if he's not careful. It's only his first night living here and he tries his best not to make a scene. There's more yelling through the phone, and Roman slips into a different language all together to finish the conversation. Dean and Seth give him a wide birth for the rest of the night.) He's desperate, really, and there's something about Roman, about those tornado-grey eyes that makes Dean feel as if he's trapped, pinned flat against whatever surface he happens to be gracing, and forced to surrender his entire self.

But that's a bit dramatic. 

Dean blinks, stirred from his thoughts. He waves his hand again, with another, more startled laugh. 'It's fine. I'm used to tellin' my shit anyway. Shoot.'

'What made you this way?' He says it without hesitation, without trepidation and _damn_ Dean is kinda used to people prodding him but Roman cuts straight to the point, no frills. Dean inhales. He kinda appreciates the bluntness.

'Uh, well, I mean. Which part? The hallucinations?' Roman shrugs but nods: anything Dean feels comfortable telling he's willing to hear. 'Well, shit, man. I guess. I mean it's kinda hard to remember a time when I _didn't_ have 'em y'know? Like, they were always sorta there.' He sighs softly. 'But yeah I mean my childhood sorta. Exacerbated it.'

'What does that word mean? "Exacerbate".' Roman asks, really demands. He'd always sorta considered himself smarter than Dean, but every once in a while Dean managed to completely throw him for a loop with random topics that _nobody_ should know so much about. (Last time it was 'cri-du-chat', a genetic disorder that Roman has never even _heard_ of but Dean seemed to know every little thing about. Roman had tried to follow along for a little bit, but eventually lost track and looked to Seth for help. Seth shrugged; that's just how Dean is.)

'Uh, like to um. Make it worse.' Dean nibbles on the edge of his thumb, Roman nods, and Dean continues. 'Yeah but I. Yeah I always sorta had them but they got kinda worse when like my ma lost her job, right after my old man got hauled away to prison for beatin' the shit outta her.' Dean chuckles softly to himself. 'Was a real nice turn of events. I mean with my dad there it wasn't too great, but with him gone it was hell.'

'What happened?'

'Well, uh, she hadda make money somehow, and there wasn't really much work left up there. We relied on family for a lil bit but our relationship with 'em was always kinda strained cause ma was so sure that my dad was _perfect_ , even with his anniversary gift of a broken nose.' Dean smiled weakly. 'So she did what anybody had to do, started workin' the streets to put food on the table. Kids at school used to make fun uh me for it but I always got the last laugh, didn't I? Cause it was their dads that propositioned her.'

He searches Roman's face, which shows only absolute attention, and then continues. 'Yeah, she fucked a lot of shitty dudes. She'd never touched anything but weed and booze before they got their hands on her. Left her strung out like hide; dead and curling inwards. They'd leave her like that, not a care in the world, then come up to my room and take their prize. Most of em at least knocked me around, but others needed _more_ , more than my mother could give.' He smiled bitterly again. 'I ended up dating one of them, his name's William fucking Regal, and I thought I was top shit cause I was 16 with a 38 year old that _wanted_ me.' He laughs harshly, with more anger and emptiness than Roman has ever seen. 'Used me and twisted me and tore me up. He loved how eager I was to please him, how badly I needed his attention. But I turned 18 and I was suddenly too old. Left me to the crows while he went on to pursue other kids just barely old enough to consent.'

Dean breathes heavily, obviously distraught by even the memory of this man, this man that if Roman had any choice he's rip to fucking shreds. But now, all he wants to do is to reach out to the rattled man before him, to pull him into his lap and hold him as tightly as possible, to guard him from anything else that could possibly harm. 

'I ended up doin' it too: the drugs, the sex, the beatings. It was all fun and games until me an' Seth got close in sophomore year, until he was the only one there for me after Regal up an' left.' Dean paused, before speaking carefully. 'He didn't mind me being a hopeless, insane piece of shit, and honestly he's the only reason I haven't offed myself in all these years.' There's an air of finality; this is all Dean is going to say. Dean glares off at something in the distance, a distraught sneer pulled against his lips as he bares his teeth in an attempt to ward off the unseen, spectres that haunt his every second and again, Roman wants to hold him, tightly, and assure him that he will do his utmost to save him.

But Roman doesn't know what to say, he's never quite sure to say. It's Seth that always does this, Seth that knows how to comfort and assuage. But Roman only knows how to destroy, has only ever desecrated everything he's loved, that he will love. Seth is an architect and Roman is a wrecking ball, and Dean, Dean is the condemned condominium, already collapsed inwards.

Dean stands up, suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks around. 'Well, uh, yeah that's it I suppose.' And Roman is struck silent, because he's waited too long, and because he doesn't know what to say, and he's messed everything they've been carefully building amongst the rubble. Dean turns to walk away, but Roman reaches out without a thought, pulling Dean towards him and, and, he kisses him because there's nothing he _could_ say and Dean mirrors him, leaning into the kiss, bringing his hands to frame Roman's face and everything that could be said it written along their lips, exchanged in the only way Roman knows how.

But Dean hears him, and they both understand.

(They break apart, barely, Dean resting his forehead against Roman's.

'Yeah.'

'Yeah.')


End file.
